The Feast

by Margaret Kennedy

  Miss Ellis pursued Fred into the house asking for details. But he could tell her no more.

  ‘But where’s their mothers?’ demanded Miss Ellis. ‘Do they know? Were they there? Has anybody broken it to them?’

  Fred shook his head. Neither Lady Gifford nor Mrs. Cove had been up on the cliff, that he did know.

  ‘Lady Gifford’s asleep in her room,’ said Miss Ellis eagerly. ‘Had no idea of it probably. Somebody really ought …’

  ‘S’awful!’ said Fred again.

  ‘I’d better go myself,’ decided Miss Ellis, with some satisfaction. ‘Since nobody else seems to have thought of the poor thing.’

  She solemnly mounted the stairs and Fred went to the kitchen, where all the Coves and Evangeline were drinking hot tea. He took a cup himself and felt no qualms at having described them as bodies. When he had seen them in the boat they had looked like bodies.

  Nancibel took the Coves upstairs to bed as soon as they had had a hot drink. But Evangeline stayed in the kitchen with Gerry and Bruce to dispense tea to anyone who came. Mrs. Siddal, Sir Henry, Caroline, and all the boys appeared, and they lingered for a while, drinking and chattering in the idle mood which succeeds tension. Caroline was questioned more closely about the Covenant of Spartans and her embarrassed reticence intensified the general impression that Hebe had been bullying the other children in a most reprehensible way.

  ‘But it’s a secret society,’ she protested. ‘We promised we’d never give away its secrets. I wouldn’t have told to-day if I hadn’t thought it was too dangerous.’

  ‘Hebe made us promise,’ said Luke. ‘We all hated having to be Spartans, but Hebe made us do it.’

  And Michael obliged the company with the most horrifying details.

  ‘I think you’re both very unloyal,’ said Caroline hotly. ‘You enjoyed a great deal of it. You both begged Hebe to let you be Spartans when she started it.’

  ‘But why do you let her boss you all like that?’ asked Robin. ‘You’re three to one.’

  Sir Henry said despondently that Hebe should be reprimanded. His wife would … But he was interrupted by Mrs. Siddal, who said sharply that Lady Gifford and Mrs. Cove were apparently the only people in the house who had, so far, suffered no alarm whatever. Where were they, and why were they not looking after their own children?

  ‘My wife is upstairs,’ he said. ‘She’s having her afternoon rest. I’d better go up and tell her.’

  He hurried up and knocked at Eirene’s door. A harsh, unexpected voice told him to come in. He did so and was confronted by Mrs. Cove, who told him grimly that his wife had fainted.

  ‘She’s heard, then?’ he said, looking at Eirene, who lay senseless upon the bed.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs. Cove. ‘I rang the bell repeatedly, but nobody came. I dashed water in her face.’

  He went to get brandy from the flask in Eirene’s dressing-case. Mrs. Cove had certainly dashed water. She must have dashed a whole jugful, for when he tried to administer the brandy he found the bed was soaked.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ he asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. She was like this when I got here. I was just coming in from my walk when that stupid housekeeper called over the bannisters, shouting for help, so I came up. She told me … what has happened, but beyond that she wasn’t the slightest use, so I sent her off to get someone. I’ve been here ever since. I didn’t like to leave your wife, but I think somebody should have come.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. It must have been the shock. Could you hold her up a little?’

  Mrs. Cove roughly jerked Eirene up while he gave her the brandy, and then let her fall back again. A faint flush lit up in the ashy cheeks.

  ‘It’s a good thing I’m not given to fainting,’ muttered Mrs. Cove.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘It must have been quite a shock for you too.’

  ‘Quite a shock?’ she repeated, staring at him.

  There was in her gaze such a strange mixture of alarm, suspicion and defiance that he was puzzled. She plainly thought that he had meant to insult her. He remembered the taxi ride and realized that she might be vulnerable to an accusation of callousness.

  ‘An awful shock,’ he amended. ‘But they’re really quite all right, you know. Blanche and Beatrix are still a bit shaky, but Hebe and Maud don’t seem to be a penny the worse.’

  ‘What?’

  Her expression changed. It dissolved into blank astonishment.

  ‘Then they’re not … they’re not …’ she whispered.

  ‘Didn’t Miss Ellis tell you that? What did she say?’

  She did not answer. She dropped her eyes and a slow crimson spread all over her square, pale face, up to the roots of her hair.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ he repeated.

  ‘She said they were’ drowned,’ muttered Mrs. Cove in a thick voice. ‘All four of them.’

  ‘Drowned? Good God? No wonder Eirene fainted!’

  He seized his wife’s hands and began to call to her eagerly:

  ‘Eirene! Eirene! It’s all right, darling! It’s all right! Hebe is quite all right. They’re all safe….’

  The long eyelashes fluttered and Eirene moaned faintly.

  ‘It was all a mistake. Hebe is safe. She’s safe, darling. I’ll bring her to you….’

  He ran to the door and told Fred, who who as listening outside, to find Hebe and send her up. Then he returned to the bed.

  ‘Oh, Harry …’

  ‘I know, darling. I know. But it’s quite all right. She’s safe. Young Siddal saved them. He had a boat out there….’

  ‘They said she was … oh …’

  ‘Oh, my poor darling! My poor, poor darling!’

  ‘And what about me?’

  Mrs. Cove’s voice was not loud, but it broke on them like a scream.

  ‘Hebe is only one child, and not your own either. I was told that all mine were lost. Where are they?’

  ‘They’re in their beds. Nancibel is seeing to them. Yes, darling … Hebe is coming….’

  Mrs. Cove went towards the door. But her rage was too much for her. She turned, came to the foot of the bed, and addressed Lady Gifford.

  ‘Stop that whimpering, you silly creature. You’ve nothing to cry for.’

  Astonishment silenced Eirene. She stared at Mrs. Cove, who went on:

  ‘There’s nothing in the world the matter with you except over-eating and no exercise. If you’d been left as I was, a penniless widow, with three children to fend for, you’d be as strong as a horse. You’d have to be. You wouldn’t be able to afford these fainting fits.’

  ‘You know nothing about it,’ cried Eirene, finding her tongue. ‘I happen to love Hebe. You don’t love your children so, of course, it wasn’t such a shock to you.’

  ‘Why do you suggest I don’t love my children?’

  ‘Anybody can see you don’t. You neglect them. You sell their sweets.’

  ‘Which you aren’t ashamed to eat.’

  There was a tap at the door and Hebe looked in, half frightened, half impish.

  ‘Fred sent me up,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter? Am I wanted?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Henry, crossing the room, ‘you aren’t. Go to bed.’

  He pushed her out and slammed the door. Neither lady had noticed her brief appearance. They were too deeply absorbed in their battle, each intent upon an utter condemnation of the other. But neither listened much to what the other said.

  8. Solitude

  Beatrix and Maud were asleep. Blanche lay awake, staring at the sunset hues on the ceiling. Their mother had gone down to dinner. She was very angry but she had not whipped them because they were still unwell. They were, however, to be punished. They were never to play with any of the Giffords again.

  But it was not this woe which kept Blanche awake after her sisters had sobbed themselves into a doze. It was something much more dreadful—a discovery so terrifying that, for the first time in her life, s
he felt no impulse to share it with the others.

  Mrs. Pearce’s little carving was locked up in the suitcase under the bed.

  Not many of their possessions were left in the wardrobe or the chest of drawers for fear that Nancibel or Fred or Miss Ellis might be thieves. As much as possible was kept locked up in the suitcases, the keys of which lived in Mrs. Cove’s handbag. Just before supper she had pulled this particular suitcase out and unlocked it, in order to find a pair of stockings. Maud was suddenly sick again, so that it had been left on the floor with all its contents displayed, while Mrs. Cove jumped up to fetch a basin. Blanche, peering over the edge of her bed, had caught a glimpse of the little carving, where it lay in a tumble of handkerchiefs and gloves. She recognized it at once.

  She said nothing, but she was profoundly shocked.

  She did not love her mother. None of them did, nor had it ever occurred to them that they ought to do so. She had never asked for their affection. But neither did they criticize or rebel against her. She pervaded and ruled their lives like some unpropitious climate, and they accepted her rule as inevitable, evading its harshness by instinct rather than by reason. For she only dominated their outward and material existences; over their minds she had no sway. She never invaded their imaginations or attempted to impart to them any ideas. The very aridity of her character had been their salvation. Nothing of importance had ever been said to them in their mother’s voice, and many characters in their favourite books were more real to them than she was. They seldom thought about her.

  But Blanche was thinking now. At the sight of that dark little lump among the handkerchiefs a sudden illumination had come to her. For she had already decided that the person who bought Mrs. Pearce’s carving must be very cruel and wicked.

  Her thoughts were oppressed by a frightening sense of solitude. She felt as though she had been transported to some strange desert where she was completely lost. In the past she had always shared any new idea with her sisters. She hardly knew how to make any decision quite alone. Yet she flinched from the thought of telling them, or of putting her discovery into words.

  Footsteps came softly along the passage and Nancibel looked in. She had stayed over time that evening until supper was served in order to oblige Mrs. Siddal, for the household was still disorganized.

  Catching the watchful sparkle of Blanche’s eyes she came on tiptoe and knelt by the bed.

  ‘All right, ducks?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Blanche.

  ‘Thought I’d just look in before I went home. You don’t look too grand, I must say. What is it, dear?’

  She leant over and saw traces of tears on Blanche’s cheeks.

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘I don’t wonder. We’ve all been frightened. But you’d better forget all about it now. Only you mustn’t be so silly another time.’

  ‘We’ll try not to. But we’re rather … queer children, aren’t we?’

  Nancibel was taken aback.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she hedged. ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘Our family is queer, don’t you think?’ whispered Blanche. ‘We have no friends. We don’t know any people. We don’t live like other people, do we?’

  She gave Nancibel a straight, enquiring look, and Nancibel blushed.

  ‘Listen, Blanche! I’ve been thinking. I believe you could give that feast. I could get you some lobsters and cream and sweets if you like.’

  ‘Oh, Nancibel! How good you are! But it’s no use. We mayn’t play with the Giffords any more, so we couldn’t ask them.’

  ‘Well, then, ask somebody else. Ask me. I’ll come.’

  ‘And Angie and Gerry Siddal … all the Siddals. We could ask them. They’re so kind. And the chauffeur and Mrs. Paley … and Fred….’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nancibel, laughing. ‘Ask the whole hotel, I would.’

  Blanche glowed with pleasure.

  ‘The Giffords would have to come if we asked the whole hotel, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘You’d need a lot of lobsters, duckie.’

  ‘How much do they cost?’

  ‘You don’t get them for nothing. But you shall have your feast, I promise. Just a nice little feast. Now give me a kiss and go to sleep, and you’ll feel quite well tomorrow.’

  Blanche flung her skinny arms round Nancibel and hugged her.

  ‘I wish you were our sister, Nancibel!’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I expect you have lovely times at your home.’

  ‘We have good times and bad times,’ said Nancibel, smiling. ‘Everybody has. Your good times are all coming.’

  ‘Are they? How do you know?’

  ‘The cat told me.’

  ‘What cat?’ cried Blanche, astonished. ‘Hebe’s cat?’

  ‘No. My great-grandmother’s cat. Now what’s the matter?’

  For Blanche, reminded of old Mrs. Pearce, had looked woebegone.

  ‘Mrs. Pearce’s cat?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just a saying … what people say. It doesn’t mean anything. It means I’ve a sort of guess.’

  She lingered for a while, wondering what had upset the child again, but Blanche would say no more; and at last she went off to climb the hill and tell the tale of the day’s adventure to her family at supper.

  If she knew, thought Blanche, if she knew what’s in our suitcase! Mother will sell it to get a lot of money. She needs money because she is so poor. But Nancibel is poor and she is going to give us a feast. And Mrs. Pearce is poor, poorer than anybody.

  The light faded and the noise of the sea grew fainter as the tide went out. At the last low tide she had been on the sands with her sisters, making their little castle. And she remembered how suddenly Sir Henry had appeared with a warning about old Mrs. Pearce. She fell into her usual habit of narrating the incident to herself as though it had been in a book.

  And, all unknowing, footsteps were approaching across the sand, dear reader, the footsteps of the one who was to give us a warning. Give them a warning. Because the three sisters had been so intent upon their castle that they did not hear the rapid approach of the … of the baronet … until they were startled by his voice speaking in a fashionable drawl. Beautiful. French, is it not? For he was a man of great culture and good taste, and the Tres Riches Heures was a household word in his mouth. But after paying some florid compliments, he revealed the true purpose of his … his … his errand to that lonely spot. It was to give a warning. Do not, he whispered, breathe a word about Mrs, Pearce’s treasures. There are some very Wicked people in the world. We thought he meant robbers. They thought he meant robbers.

  But what did he mean? This is not a book. Does he guess? Does he know? Why did he ask us? Does everybody know?

  At ten o’clock Mrs. Cove came up to bed. Blanche pretended to be asleep. She heard her mother’s movements, rapid and decisive, the opening and shutting of drawers, the creak of the wardrobe door. And then Mrs. Cove went to have a bath, leaving her handbag on the dressing-table.

  Blanche sat up. She slipped out of bed, took the keys from the bag, and opened the suitcase. Taking the carved figure she flung it out of the window as far as she could, on to the grass terrace. Then she locked the suitcase, returned the keys and went back to bed.

  It was the first time that she had ever taken a decision without consulting her sisters. The idea of returning the piece to Mrs. Pearce never occurred to her, though it would probably have occurred to Maud. She merely wished to put it out of her mother’s possession.

  9. Voices in the Night

  ‘What on earth is the matter, Bruce?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter with me.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘My dear Mrs. Bassington Gore….’

  ‘You filthy little twerp. Get out!’

  ‘All right. I’m getting out.’

  ‘If Nancibel has this effect on you….’

  ‘You shut your trap about Nancibel.’

  �
��Amuse yourself with her as much as you like. But …’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? Another word about her and I’ll shut your mouth for you.’

  ‘Nancibel …’

  ‘All right!’

  ‘Oh, you filthy brute!’

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘My lip’s bleeding. It’s bleeding all over the pillow. Just look at it. What will Miss Ellis say? …You’re rather exciting when you lose your temper. I wish you’d do it oftener. I didn’t realize you’d fallen for Nancibel in a big way. What are you crawling about for?’

  ‘I’m looking for my shoes.’

  ‘You’re not really angry, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? I think I’ve been very nice about Nancibel. Can’t I even mention her without getting my face slapped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’d better take care, Bruce. There’s a point beyond which you can’t depend on me to be nice. I’ll forget the face slapping and I’ll advise you to forget Nancibel.’

  ‘Or you’ll tell the police I pinched that car?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I’m only reminding you that we’d better not quarrel. Come here … Bruce! Come here! Oh, very well. Go if you like. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  The night was vast and cool. All Pendizack Cove lay in a gulf of shadow, but the cliffs stood bare in the starlight. Bruce did not go back to the stables and his precarious bed. He went down on to the dim sands and walked about, trying to make up his mind what to do next. He was sick of Anna but he was afraid of breaking with her. For it was she who had introduced him to literary people, the friends of whom he had boasted to Alice and Nancibel. He did not like them much, but they were a step on the ladder which he wished to climb. As soon as his book was published and his genius recognized he could be independent of her and of them. If he left her now it might never be published, for he had overstepped the truth when he described this event as a certainty. Anna was bringing pressure upon a publisher friend of hers to accept it.

  And then there was that little matter of the car which he had stolen when he was Boots in the South Coast hotel last summer. He had borrowed it to take a girl to a dance, smashed it up in a ditch, and killed a cyclist. Anna knew about that. She had supplied him with an alibi when he was questioned. She had rescued him from the police and his blacking brushes, and taken him back with her to London. She had encouraged him to write and taken him to cocktail parties. He certainly owed her a great deal, though he felt that he had paid for it.